[Shawn Celebrity Dead Match part 2]

 

Part 5: The Cup

The ring smelled like rubber and spotlight heat. The ropes gleamed under the white-hot lights, taut like the strings of some cruel instrument. My boots squeaked against the mat as I stepped inside, and for a second, just a second, I felt like I belonged here. Not as a fighter—I was no fighter—but as a spectacle. And tonight spectacle was enough.

I shook my hips as if I were loosening tension, but really I was trying to feel the weight of the cup. It hugged me tight, snug against denim that squeaked faintly when I bent. I grabbed the mic suspended from above and gave my groin a little shake like Elvis, announcing to the entire arena, “Men are ready to be the winners tonight!”

The crowd split instantly: a wave of male voices roaring their approval, and an equally sharp volley of female cheers crashing back in Sabrina’s favor. On one side of the ring, I caught my dad pumping his fist in the air like this was a hockey game in ‘94. Mr. Carpenter, traitor turned ally, clapped his hands steady, proud as if I were already his son. And there was Joshua—dear Joshua—hopping up and down, denim jacket flapping, shouting, “Game on, bro! Game on!”

Behind me, Martin Ødegaard and Chase Stokes waited, arms crossed, leaning casual against the barricade. My brothers-in-arms. My muscle chorus line. Martin’s jersey caught the light like a banner of inevitability, and Chase had that Netflix-hero grin, teeth like stage lights. Together we were giants. The women across from us looked small, delicate, like sparklers flickering in a storm.

Sabrina cracked her knuckles and smiled, which should have unnerved me. Instead I let my chest expand and my ego balloon. She can smirk all she wants. I’ve got steel between me and destiny.

The bell rang.

 

I surged forward, arms already tingling with adrenaline. In my head it was cinematic: the hero steps in, throws a punch that lands like a hammer, the crowd roars, history turns. My right fist swung in a wide arc, the kind of punch that belonged on posters.

Problem: I am not a boxer.

The swing was slow. Telegraphed. A haymaker with all the subtlety of a parade float. Sabrina ducked so smoothly it looked rehearsed, her hair swishing under my arm like she’d been waiting for this exact moment since birth.

My momentum spun me nearly in a circle. For a second I felt like I was auditioning for a drunk Rocky remake, arms flailing, trying not to trip over my own boots. Laughter rippled instantly through the crowd. I heard it, sharp and unanimous. They knew. They could see I’d watched movies, not training tapes.

“Fuck you, Sabrina,” I hissed, trying to recover dignity. My voice cracked at the end like a teenager’s.

She grinned, blew me a kiss, and danced back to her corner.

 

My cheek burned red, but my pride burned hotter. I needed to show athleticism, not just arms. So I switched gears—martial arts, soccer, something European. Martin Ødegaard did this every week: precise, clean, beautiful.

I mimicked his vibe. Stepped forward. Drew my leg back. And swung a heavy soccer-style kick at Sabrina’s side.

The denim betrayed me. Jeans are not made for combat. The fabric clutched my thighs like a jealous ex, stiff and tight, cutting my arc short. The kick looked less like “athlete at peak form” and more like “dad testing flexibility at barbecue.”

Sabrina hopped back lightly, her sequins flashing. My leg kept swinging. Overcommitment pulled me forward, balance tipping, and suddenly the ropes were there, catching me like a safety net. My chest hit the top rope, bouncing me back into the ring.

The crowd gasped—momentary shock—then chuckled when I straightened up with a stupid grin, pretending it was intentional. I pointed at my temple as if to say mind games, folks, even though everyone knew it was denim strangling destiny.

 

Panic crept in under my ribs. My arms ached from swinging air, my leg tingled from denim betrayal, and the crowd’s laughter felt like mosquitoes biting every inch of my skin. Brute force. That was my advantage. Height, weight, mass.

So I lunged. Arms wide, ready to clamp down and muscle Sabrina into submission.

But she was wind. She was glitter and velocity. She stepped aside with balletic grace, and I clutched nothing but air. My chest slammed into the corner turnbuckle with a hollow thunk that rattled my teeth.

The audience exploded. Laughter rained down. “MAN-CHILD! MAN-CHILD!” they chanted, the echo of Sabrina’s song weaponized by strangers.

I tried to push off the ropes, chest heaving. She winked at the crowd like she had choreographed this exact humiliation.

And then—like fate had a sense of humor—the male audience section erupted in a desperate cheer.

“There’s nothing holdin’ me back!” they sang, loud and off-key, a choir of denim and misplaced loyalty. My song. My supposed anthem. My humiliation remixed into a stadium chant.

I raised my fists high, nodding like a general accepting his army’s devotion. Inside, shame gnawed at my gut.

 

The bell rang again for Round Two. Honestly, I wasn’t sure we’d earned another round. I was already winded from all the theatrics, my jeans pinching in ways they were never meant to, my chest tight from flexing too hard for the cameras. But pride is louder than reason, and so I squared up again, fists raised too wide apart, jaw thrust forward in what I told myself was alpha posture but probably looked more like a bad Halloween costume of a boxer.

I puffed air through my nose like a bull in cartoons. “Come on then,” I muttered, half to Sabrina, half to myself, and half to the cameras I knew were zoomed in on my face.

She moved. God, she moved fast.

One second she was standing there smirking, sequins glittering under the hot lights. The next, she was lightning. A blur of gold, hair whipping, arms cutting through space with the kind of precision you only see in dance or war. My brain hadn’t even finished forming the thought brace yourself before—

CRACK.

Her fist smashed square into my face.

My head snapped sideways so violently my curls bounced like I was shooting a shampoo commercial in slow motion. I swear I saw one curl leap, twirl, and fall with more grace than I’d managed all night. Sweat sprayed from my temple in a perfect arc, glittering under the spotlights like someone had popped a champagne bottle.

Stars burst in my vision. The kind you see on cartoons when the anvil drops. Only this was real, and it burned.

What the hell? My mind screamed, spinning. I didn’t even blink and she tagged me. My cheek’s burning—no, glowing. Is this what a sunburn feels like from the inside? Or did she just tattoo her name across my face with her knuckles?

The crowd went absolutely feral. The sound hit me harder than her fist. One giant, unified animal roar, equal parts delight and bloodlust. Phones shot up, flashes exploded. I could already imagine the freeze-frames: me, eyes wide, curls mid-flight, dignity leaking out of my ears.

And Sabrina? She skipped back lightly, fists still up, smiling like she’d just finished a warm-up exercise. Her expression was pure mockery: “Was that your best square-up, Mr. Manchild?”

“Nice stance, Shawn,” she called, loud enough for the front row to hear. “You look like a scarecrow about to fall over.”

Laughter detonated around the arena. My face burned hotter than the punch.

 

I staggered, vision wobbling, my ears ringing like someone had left a feedback loop on the mic. I needed to do something, anything, before the chants started again. Pride doesn’t give you time to think—it just throws your body forward.

So I lunged. Not with fists, not with feet. Instinct took over, the instinct of every playground in history. My arms shot out, palms open, and I shoved.

My hands hit Sabrina’s chest and I pushed with everything I had left in me. It wasn’t elegant, it wasn’t trained—it was the move of a desperate man who’d been backed into a corner by a girl half his size and a crowd full of memes.

She staggered back a single step. Not hurt. Not even rattled. Just… surprised, like I’d broken the unspoken rule that we were supposed to be professionals.

But to me? That one step was victory.

“Yes!” I barked, chest heaving like I’d just moved a mountain. “Mass over sass! Physics doesn’t lie! This is how empires are built!”

I threw my arms wide, grinning maniacally at the male section of the audience. “Did you see that? I made her MOVE!”

The men clapped weakly, a couple whistles cutting through. But it wasn’t thunderous applause. It was polite, almost pitying. The kind of clapping you give a toddler for coloring inside the lines.

Still, I held my chin high, my face throbbing from the punch but my pride screaming louder: I made her budge. That’s all I need. A footnote in history. Mendes 1, Carpenter 0.

Sabrina straightened, dusted an imaginary speck off her sequined shoulder, and smirked. “That’s the best you’ve got? You shoved me like we’re in middle school. Cute.”

The women in the audience howled.

 

Her smirk deepened, sharp enough to slice through denim. She surged forward again, faster this time. I saw her fake left, her foot pivoting. My brain screamed the prophecy: It’s coming. The move. The knee. The apocalypse.

My body tensed. The arena seemed to hold its breath.

Her knee shot up like a piston, slamming straight into my groin.

THUNK.

But this time, oh—this time it was different.

No sharp agony. No soul-shattering squeal. No collapse into a fetal ball while the world laughed. Instead, it was a dull, hollow sound. Like a baseball bat smacking a catcher’s helmet. The force vibrated, yes, but the pain… the pain never came.

I stiffened, braced, waiting for the familiar wave of nausea and fire. Nothing.

And then I laughed. First a small bark, then louder, bubbling out uncontrollably, manic and triumphant.

“NOTHING!” I screamed, voice cracking with glee. “I feel NOTHING!”

I jabbed a finger at Sabrina, then swung it down to point theatrically at my crotch. “Ladies and gentlemen—science has spoken. Technology has saved me. Behold: the fortress!”

The arena gasped, a thousand voices in one, and then chaos. Half booed, half cheered. Some chanted “MENDES!” at the top of their lungs, the word echoing like a curse and a joke in one.

I spread my arms wide, chest puffed, grinning like a man who had just conquered mortality. “I’M WEARING A CUP, BABY!” I roared into the overhead mic, my voice booming out over the speakers.

The cameras zoomed instantly on Sabrina, who rolled her eyes so hard it looked like she was trying to see her brain. The jumbotron replayed it on loop: my wild grin, my triumphant crotch point, her eye-roll. Meme fodder, but this time in my favor—or so I told myself.

“Yes!” my inner voice howled. Physics, baby. Mass over sass. This is how empires are built. That’s right, Carpenter—I’m the wall, you’re the wind.

I strutted in a circle, fists raised. My grin split wide, sweat dripping into my mouth but tasting like victory. The men in the front row clapped uncertainly, still unsure if blocking pain counted as a move.

But I didn’t care. I’d beaten the curse. I’d cracked the code.

 

The adrenaline surged through me like rocket fuel. I was invincible. Untouchable. A denim-clad god with a plastic cup guarding his destiny.

I charged Sabrina, sloppy but forceful, arms swinging wide. I wrapped them clumsily around her shoulders and bulldozed her down.

Her sequined body hit the mat with a loud thud, glitter scattering against the canvas. The crowd gasped—half shocked, half skeptical.

But in my head, the gasp was awe.

I pumped both fists in the air, face blazing red with effort and triumph. I climbed onto the second turnbuckle, arms stretched wide like a conquering hero.

“THIS IS MY RING!” I bellowed, sweat dripping down my temples, voice cracking into the mic.

The cup pressed secure and proud between my thighs. My chest swelled. My hair glistened under the lights.

This is it. Redemption. I’ve slain humiliation. I’ve slain the memes. Tonight, Goliath wins. And Goliath has perfect hair.

But when I looked down, Sabrina wasn’t broken. She wasn’t humiliated.

She was already propped on one elbow, smirking up at me.

The kind of smirk that said: “You think this is over? Oh, Shawn. Sweet, dumb Shawn.”

And the audience, clever and cruel, sensed it too. Their cheers morphed into a buzz of anticipation, the laughter already building in their throats.

Part 6: The Downfall

The bell had rung, Sabrina had been down, and I should’ve just left it there — declared myself the winner, climbed the ropes one last time, flexed my arms, and taken my small slice of dignity home. But no. Pride was already gnawing at my ribs, and the chant of the men in the audience was like fuel poured on fire.

I strutted around the ring, my chest puffed out like a parade float. My muscles glistened with sweat, veins pulsing, jeans clinging to my thighs like they’d been painted on. I flexed my arms, kissed my biceps, and pointed at the men’s section of the crowd.

“Sing it with me, boys!” I roared into the overhead mic.

And like that, the chorus rose.

They belted my own anthem back at me — only they twisted the words:

🎵 “There’s nothing holdin’ MEN back!” 🎵

The sound thundered across the arena. My veins lit up. I jumped in place, bouncing on the balls of my feet, leading them like some denim messiah. I threw my arms wide like a rockstar commanding the encore, then slammed a fist against my chest.

“There’s nothing holdin’ MEN back!” I echoed, stomping the mat in rhythm.

Joshua Bassett was in the front row, standing on his chair, his curls bouncing as he sang along like a teenage fangirl. His voice cracked on the chorus, but his eyes sparkled in awe, fixed on me like I was his gladiator.

My dad was red in the face from screaming, veins bulging in his neck. He wasn’t just proud — he was reborn, finally convinced his son was the man he’d always wanted him to be. He clutched his groin with both hands, shaking it in solidarity, as if daring the women to try.

Mr. Carpenter — Sabrina’s own father — followed suit, grabbing his crotch with a smirk, shaking it defiantly. “Go on, Shawn!” he shouted. “Show her what real strength looks like!”

The entire men’s section mirrored us. A sea of groins being shaken in rhythm to my anthem, denim bulging like a bizarre halftime show. Odegaard laughed so hard he doubled over, pointing at me, muttering something in Norwegian that I assumed meant “legend.” Chase Stokes clapped me on the back between stomps, his cowboy boots pounding the floor like war drums.

I was leading a brotherhood. A denim militia. A choir of balls.

This was my empire.

And then she stood up.

 

“Not so fast, big boy.”

Her voice cut through the music like a knife through velvet.

I froze mid-flex, my grin faltering. My eyes shot wide. She was standing. Sabrina was standing.

She straightened slowly, brushing glitter from her arm as if she hadn’t just been shoved to the canvas. Her movements were deliberate, unhurried, theatrical — the kind of pacing that told you she wasn’t just fighting, she was directing the scene.

My jaw dropped. She’s supposed to be down. She’s supposed to be broken. Why is she still… moving?

She tilted her head at the producer’s table, her voice sweet and merciless.

“Hit my track.”

And the arena exploded again.

The bassline dropped, and instantly I recognized it — Espresso. Her viral hit. The song that had been haunting TikTok for months, the song blasting in every car, every gym, every club.

 “Now he’s thinkin’ ‘bout me every night, oh… Is it that sweet? I guess so…”

The crowd shrieked as the beat rattled the rafters.

Sabrina began to dance.

Not clumsy. Not frantic. Not forced. Elegant. Smooth. Liquid. Her sequins caught the lights like constellations, her hips rolling with hypnotic rhythm. She didn’t just move across the ring — she owned it, turning every step into a stage, every pivot into power.

I froze. My fists dropped. My chest rose and fell, panic tangled with awe.

Stay cool, Shawn. You’re immune. Steel cup. Steel resolve. She can’t break you now.

And then she reached me.

She raised one finger, feather-light, and touched my chin.

Heat surged through me.

My body betrayed me instantly.

The betrayal started as the smallest twitch. Just a pulse. A subtle shift inside my jeans, nothing more. But like every nightmare in my life, it grew fast. The pressure swelled against the cup, pressing forward, mocking me with its timing. My anatomy decided now was the moment to stand proud, right here in front of thousands of people, millions on TV, while I was trying to play macho gladiator.

The denim stretched so tight it groaned, like it was begging me to stop embarrassing myself. My breath caught. My knees wobbled.

No. Not now. Not HERE.

The crowd caught it instantly. A ripple of gasps spread through the arena, then burst into brutal, joyous laughter. Someone in the front row screamed it like a breaking-news alert:

“He’s got a BONER!”

The laughter hit me harder than Sabrina’s punch. Phones flashed brighter, zoomed in, immortalizing my humiliation in 4K.

I tried to move, to adjust my stance, to shift my hips, but nothing helped. The damn thing pulsed against the cup like it was auditioning for its own solo.

“Shit,” I whispered, my voice trembling.

Joshua in the front row clapped both hands over his mouth, eyes wide, cheeks red, torn between horror and giggles. My dad’s proud, beaming face twisted into something worse than shame — disappointment. Odegaard was gone, folded in half, tears rolling down his cheeks as he laughed himself stupid. Chase Stokes was leaning against the barricade, one hand on his stomach, the other pointing at me, unable to breathe.

I couldn’t hide it. They all saw it. My body had betrayed me, made me its clown. I was undone.

Desperation seized me. I shoved Sabrina away with both arms, stumbling back like a drunk at last call. She rolled with the push, graceful as a gymnast, and sprang back up, eyes glittering with murder. Before I could even breathe, she was behind me.

CRACK.

Her heel slammed straight into my groin from behind.

And this time, there was no shield. The erection had shifted the cup. The fortress was gone. The weak spot was naked.

The tip of her boot connected with sickening precision, and the world split in half.

My entire body convulsed, every nerve screaming. A strangled squeal tore out of me, high-pitched and humiliating, louder than the mic feedback. My legs buckled inward, thighs clamping together, my arms flailing like broken wings before collapsing around my groin.

Pain detonated like fireworks up my spine, down my legs, into my skull. I couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe.

It’s over. I can’t—I can’t—

I crumpled forward, knees crashing to the mat. My body curled in on itself like a dying star, tears bursting unbidden down my face.

But she wasn’t done. Of course she wasn’t done.

While I writhed, doubled over, Sabrina crouched low. I felt her fingers slip under the waistband of my jeans.

“No,” I whimpered, my voice breaking. “Don’t—”

In one brutal, merciless motion, she yanked the cup free.

The audience erupted. Half in shock, half in hysterical laughter.

Phones flashed like strobe lights, recording my downfall from every angle. Sabrina stood tall, holding the cup above her head like a trophy. Sequins sparkled, her grin razor sharp.

Then she tossed it to the side, casual as trash. Her father caught it one-handed, like he’d been waiting his whole life to snatch my dignity out of the air.

“Cup can’t protect men,” she declared, her voice sharp and merciless through the mic.

The arena detonated. The chant rose instantly, thunderous, relentless.

“MAN-CHILD! MAN-CHILD! MAN-CHILD!”

My body convulsed again. My legs folded tighter, my thighs locked, my scream collapsed into wheezes. Tears streamed without my permission. My jaw trembled. I couldn’t breathe right; every inhale was jagged, punctured by stabbing agony.

And then the panic set in.

The cup was gone. My fortress, my shield, my last shred of confidence had been ripped away and tossed into the crowd like confetti. I was exposed. Defenseless. Humiliated.

I clawed frantically at my jeans, trying to cover myself, but it was useless. Cameras zoomed closer, hungry for my humiliation. The roar of the crowd deafened me, and every face I managed to see blurred together in pity and laughter.

My dad’s face was pale, his lips pressed into a line. Joshua looked like he was praying to God, but even God was probably laughing. Manuel, my dad, had his hands on his head, like watching his team blow the championship. Mr. Carpenter was grinning ear to ear, pointing at me, proud of his daughter’s aim. And my mother—Karen—was shaking her head slowly, smirking, as if she had known all along this was inevitable.

I grabbed the mic between gasps. My voice came out shrill, panicked.

“This isn’t fair!” I shrieked. “She went for my balls! That’s dirty fighting!”

The crowd roared louder.

“That’s against the rules!” I shouted again, but it came out whiny, pathetic. I sounded like a kid tattling to a teacher, not a man defending his honor.

Sabrina just smiled, grabbed her mic, and leaned down until her eyes burned into mine. Her voice was calm, sharp, devastating.

“Men have always used their big bodies as weapons,” she said. “Muscles, size, height — you call that fair? Well, women use what we’ve got. And you gave me the perfect target.”

She tilted her head, smirking at my tears.

“Your anatomy isn’t strength, Shawn. It’s your weakness. That’s our advantage.”

The women in the crowd shrieked, clapping, stomping, chanting louder. The men tried to boo, but it drowned in the tidal wave of female cheers.

I stayed doubled over, rocking side to side, my protests crumbling into groans. The chant rose again, louder, merciless.

“MAN-CHILD! MAN-CHILD!”

Sabrina circled me slowly, sequins blazing under the lights, her smirk widening with every step.

And deep down, broken, shaking on my knees, I knew the truth.

I was fucked.

Part 7: Victory for Women. Humilaiton for Manchild.

 

 

I was curled on the mat like a roach sprayed with Raid, arms locked over my groin, trembling so hard my own sweat vibrated. Every attempt to scoot backward just made the pain worse. My legs were jelly, my back seized in spasms, and my jeans had become a denim vice strangling the last breath of my dignity.

Move. MOVE. Why won’t my body listen? Crawl, damn it! Crawl!

But all I could do was inch like a worm, my face mashed against the mat, my breath coming in pathetic sobs.

The arena quieted, eerily, like everyone knew the predator was about to pounce. Click. Click. Click. The sound of Sabrina’s heels echoed like execution drums. She circled me slowly, elegantly, her sequins glittering like knives in the spotlight.

I risked one glance over my shoulder, eyes wild with terror. My lips formed the words over and over, soundless at first:

“No. No. No.”

But my body wasn’t moving. I couldn’t even crawl.

Then she was in front of me. Standing tall. Smiling wickedly.

Her heel planted squarely on my groin.

My eyes bulged. The air fled my lungs. She pressed down slowly, deliberately, her weight transferring inch by inch until I was trembling like a man strapped to an electric chair.

And then—she stomped.

The shock ripped through me. My body jolted upward like someone had stuck jumper cables on my nipples. A squeal burst from my throat, cracked midway, and shot into a humiliating falsetto. My arms flapped uselessly, chicken wings of despair, before collapsing back to clutch myself.

The crowd erupted into manic laughter.

Sabrina leaned down, mic close to her lips, and smirked.

“Hope you taste this.”

. I’m done. I’m destroyed. I’m dust. My manhood’s a pancake. I can’t take this, I can’t—

The mic screeched as I gasped into it, my voice cracking into tiny shards of glass that fell all over the arena. I babbled, the words tumbling out of me like coins from a busted slot machine.

“Please—please stop! Sabrina! Don’t do this—mercy—mercy—”

And the producers, those diabolical puppet-masters in headsets and black jeans, decided this was the moment to hit play. The opening chords of Mercy swelled across the stadium. It was cosmic irony. It was Greek tragedy. It was network television cruelty at its most exquisite.

The crowd detonated. Laughter rolled like thunder. Girls screamed, phones shot into the air, flashlight beams waving as if to illuminate my humiliation from every possible angle. They weren’t just watching me fall apart—they were scoring it with strobe lights.

My brain short-circuited, leaving only one instinct: sing. Lizard brain Mendes activated.

“I’m saying baby…” I croaked, my voice desperate, nasal, sobbing into the mic. “Please have mercy on me…”

Each note was a disaster. Every falsetto broke apart like tissue paper in the rain. The sound wasn’t music; it was a confession, my vocal cords turning my private shame into a public playlist.

Please have mercy on me / Take it easy on my heart…

The crowd swayed their phone lights like it was a candlelight vigil for my dignity. Girls laughed while singing the chorus louder than me. Boys winced, their hands clutching their own jeans protectively like the world’s largest empathy exercise.

And then—oh God—Sabrina leaned into her mic, that devilish sparkle in her eyes. She timed it perfectly, right on my lyric.

“Take it easy on my heart.”

She smirked, tilted her mic, and spat the words that detonated what was left of my soul.

“Oh, I’m not aiming for your heart, Shawn. I’m aiming for your balls.”

The arena convulsed. Women screamed with glee. Men groaned as if a thousand phantom pains had synchronized across their groins. It was the sound of one gender rejoicing and another quietly realizing extinction was nigh.

I squeaked the next line, my voice cracking so violently it sounded like Mickey Mouse getting strangled.

Even though you don’t mean to hurt me… you keep tearing me apart…

And that’s when she crouched. The predator’s crouch. Time slowed, my brain screaming in cinematic italics: no… she wouldn’t… she couldn’t…

Her hand darted forward. Slipped under my waistband with the precision of a pickpocket and the ruthlessness of an executioner.

She grabbed my balls.

The world froze. My pupils dilated. My soul left my body, waved goodbye, and considered relocating back to Canada. A pathetic sob rattled out of me as she squeezed, hard, merciless.

“Why?” I croaked into the mic, the question wobbling like a child begging a schoolyard bully. “Why there?”

Her grip didn’t loosen. She pulled her mic close, voice steady, every word amplified across the globe.

“Because that’s the lie, Shawn. Men make the rules. ‘Don’t hit there.’ Why? Not to protect fairness. To protect themselves. That rule was written by men to make sure women never win.”

The crowd gasped, then erupted. Cheers, shrieks, stomps, whistles—it was like watching the Fourth of July but every firework spelled FUCK MEN.

“My mother taught me the truth,” she declared, squeezing harder. I squealed like a chew toy into the mic. “This so-called rule is male propaganda. They told us not to aim for your weakness because they knew it’s the only way we could beat you. Well, I say no more. No more of your propaganda. No more of your lies.”

I whimpered, my falsetto reduced to pitiful hiccups.

Sabrina lifted her eyes to the cameras, holding me by the crown jewels like a leash. “Women of the world, listen to me. Do not let men oppress you. They hide behind their muscles, their size, their height. But right here?” She yanked, making me yelp so loud the mic distorted. “Right here is where they break. Attack their balls. Always.”

The arena convulsed in ecstasy. Hashtags were being born in real time: #BallRevolution, #CrushThePatriarchy, #SabrinaGrip. Twitter’s servers probably caught fire.

I sobbed openly into the mic, reduced to a pitiful background vocalist for my own funeral. The band, savage collaborators in my downfall, struck up the intro to Manchild.

Sabrina paraded me around the ring, her hand like a puppeteer stringing me along by the most humiliating tether imaginable. My knees buckled, my legs shuffled, my eyes streamed tears.

🎵 Man-child… why you always come a-running to me? 🎵

The crowd roared, their voices joining hers, a stadium-wide choir of mockery. My squeals—high-pitched, involuntary, agonized—synced perfectly with the beat. I was percussion now. My misery was rhythm.

And then, humiliation’s cherry: my bladder betrayed me.

The warmth spread, dark and immediate, soaking my jeans in a shame no detergent could ever erase. Gasps, shrieks, gagging laughter—every reaction piled into a grotesque symphony.

Sabrina lifted her mic like a gladiator raising a severed head. “Ladies and gentlemen, I declare the winner!”

Confetti cannons blasted. Glitter rained like divine mockery. The referee, with a smirk he couldn’t suppress, lifted her arm high.

I searched the crowd for my father. Manuel Mendes bolted, dragging Mr. Carpenter with him.

“Dad! Don’t leave me!” I wailed, my voice shrill, broken, pitiful. But Manuel didn’t turn back. He muttered, “I need to keep my manhood intact,” and vanished into the shadows.

Justice, however, arrived swiftly. My mother Karen, alongside Mrs. Carpenter, intercepted the fleeing men in the aisle. Without hesitation, they both delivered swift, perfect kicks to the groins of their respective husbands. The two men dropped instantly, groaning in stereo, curled like twin shrimp cocktails of failure. The women raised their fists in solidarity, champions of a new era.

I collapsed fully onto the mat, face pressed against the sweat-slick canvas, tears pooling beneath my cheek. My body twitched pathetically, the crowd’s chant of “MAN-CHILD! MAN-CHILD!” echoing in my ears like a funeral dirge.

Flat on the mat, my body twitching in defeat, I barely registered the fresh roar of the crowd until I felt a tug at my waist. Sabrina’s fingers hooked into the waistband of my jeans.

“No…” I croaked, weak, trembling, my voice nothing but a cracked whisper.

With one triumphant yank, she peeled my jeans down and ripped them away, holding them aloft like a gladiator lifting a severed head. The denim dangled above the ring, glistening with the dark stain of my humiliation. The arena went berserk—cheers, screams, laughter so loud it rattled the rafters.

I was left sprawled in nothing but my boxer briefs, clutching myself, eyes wide with disbelief as flashes from a thousand phones immortalized the moment. My dignity was gone, paraded in the air like a trophy.

Sabrina stepped over me, her sequined figure towering above my broken body. She planted her boot on my chest, leaned down so her smirk was the only thing I could see, and whispered into the mic for the entire world to hear.

“Bye, man-child.”

Her words sliced through me, final and absolute. My vision blurred, the lights above spinning into stars, and with that cruel farewell ringing in my ears, the KO darkness claimed me.

When my eyes fluttered open, the first thing I noticed was the sterile white ceiling above me, humming faintly with fluorescent lights. The second thing was the fabric against my skin—soft hospital sheets instead of denim. My jeans were gone. I looked down: I was lying in a hospital bed, stripped to nothing but my tank top and boxers. Humiliation wasn’t just a memory now; it was my current wardrobe.

I turned my head and nearly sobbed at the sight on my left. Martin Ødegaard sat hunched in a chair, his Arsenal jersey rumpled, his handsome face blotched red from tears. His long legs trembled, and I realized even he—the Nordic ice prince—looked shattered. His eyes met mine, and without a word, he choked out, “She—she flipped me. Simone. I didn’t stand a chance.” His voice cracked, and a tear slid down his cheek.

On my right, Chase Stokes was curled forward in the corner chair, cowboy boots discarded, hat on the floor. His face was buried in his hands, but the trembling shoulders gave him away. “Jenna,” he rasped. “She—she destroyed me, man.” His whole Netflix-hero aura was gone. He looked like a kid who’d just lost prom king and found out his horse ran away on the same day.

And then the weight hit me: Simone had beaten Martin. Jenna had beaten Chase. Sabrina had annihilated me. All three of us—the supposed Avengers of testosterone—lay crumpled in defeat. We were supposed to be physics, history, Goliaths. Instead, we were three broken men sobbing in boxer briefs.

Tears welled in my own eyes, hot and shameful, until I was crying with them. The room was a chorus of masculine whimpers, a pathetic orchestra of sniffles and groans. My chest hitched, my throat burned, and the realization seared through me like acid:

I wasn’t just humiliated. I was a joke. We all were.

The door swung open, and I braced myself for a nurse. Instead, in walked a woman in a white coat—sharp, calm, confident. Her name tag gleamed: Dr. Silla Kinanti. An Indonesian doctor with a serene smile that told me she’d seen worse… and that somehow made it sting more. Beside her strutted Sabrina, sequins still glinting, my jeans slung over her shoulder like a hunting trophy. She twirled them casually, as if they were nothing more than a scarf she’d picked up at Zara.

Dr. Kinanti set her clipboard down. “Shawn Mendes,” she said gently, “you’ve been through extensive trauma. Let me explain.” Her voice was calm, professional—like a teacher explaining long division—but each word gutted me deeper than Sabrina’s knee ever could.

“From repeated knees, punches, squeezes, and grabs, you sustained severe bruising—contusions. The blood vessels in the testicles are delicate. Even one blow can cause bleeding under the skin. Multiple blows in a short span? Your scrotum swelled and turned dark. Very dark. Imagine an eggplant emoji. That was you.”

Martin made a strangled noise. Chase groaned into his hands. I wanted to disappear.

She continued matter-of-factly. “The squeezing and yanking caused a hematoma—blood pooling inside your scrotum. That’s why it swelled to several times its normal size. Walking, standing, even breathing deeply would feel unbearable.”

I whimpered. I already knew she was right.

“And,” she added, voice grave, “the grip-and-yank you endured may have caused a testicular rupture. That’s when the protective layer, the tunica albuginea, tears. It is a surgical emergency.” She looked me straight in the eye. “We operated to repair what we could. You will recover… but some tissue was too damaged. Which means…” She hesitated, then delivered the blow. “You cannot have sex for at least a year. Any attempt before that could undo the repairs.”

My body shook with sobs. The idea of a year without sex, on top of the memes, the chants, the humiliation—it was too much. My chest caved in with ugly crying.

Dr. Kinanti flipped her chart. “The do’s and don’ts: Do rest. Do wear supportive underwear. Do apply ice as needed. Don’t exert yourself. Don’t lift heavy objects. And absolutely do not attempt intercourse or… stimulation. Not for a year.” She closed her folder, serene as ever. “Your testicles need complete rest, Mr. Mendes.”

Sabrina, smiling like a cat at a terrarium of mice, leaned down toward me. Her sequins brushed my arm as she whispered into the mic she didn’t need but used anyway. “Blame evolution, Shawn. It gave you that organ. Fragile, exposed, easy to break. Not my fault.”

She patted my cheek like a nursemaid comforting a toddler, then slung my jeans higher on her shoulder. With one last smirk, she turned and walked out with Dr. Kinanti at her side, leaving the scent of antiseptic and victory in the air.

The door clicked shut.

And there we were. Three men, broken, bawling in boxer briefs. The sound of our sobs filled the sterile room like a soundtrack for the death of masculinity itself.

EPILOGUE

Five months later, I stood in front of the mirror again. No stage lights, no screaming crowds, no chants of “MAN-CHILD.” Just me, my reflection, and the clothes I thought would make me look normal again. I had slipped into a crisp blue polo shirt, tucked neatly into a pair of brand-new jeans. My armor, my uniform. Denim still felt like betrayal, but I told myself it was redemption.

Behind me, laughter drifted from the bed. A girl I’d picked up—pretty, wide-eyed, the kind of fan who still believed in the myth of Shawn Mendes—was sprawled across the covers, kicking her legs playfully as she waited. She didn’t know the headlines. Or maybe she did and didn’t care. Either way, she was here.

I buttoned the last button, adjusted my belt, and whispered to my reflection, “It’s been five months. I can’t wait anymore. I won’t wait anymore. I’m back. I’m me.”

I turned, smiling, letting confidence play across my face like a mask. I climbed onto the bed, leaned in, and for a moment it felt real again. My heart thumped with the old rhythm, the familiar hunger sparking back to life. And then—finally—it happened. The pulse, the blood rushing south, the body remembering what it had almost forgotten. An erection. Proof that maybe, just maybe, I wasn’t broken after all.

But then it came. The shift. The betrayal. A sharp, tearing pulse deep inside, like glass shattering in slow motion. Heat shot through me, then agony, radiating like fire in every nerve below the waist. My eyes widened, my breath hitched.

“No… no, no, not again—”

The pain slammed harder. I curled forward, hands clutching myself instinctively. Tears sprang hot and fast, streaming down my cheeks before I could stop them. My body shook with violent sobs. The girl on the bed froze, her laughter gone, her face pale with confusion.

And I realized, horrified, that whatever had happened in that ring, whatever Sabrina and fate and surgery had done to me, it wasn’t over. My body was a trap now, a mystery I couldn’t solve. Every attempt to reclaim myself only dragged me back to that arena, to that night, to that endless scream echoing in my ears.

I collapsed onto the sheets, trembling, clutching myself, whispering through the sobs.

“My balls… why…”

The girl backed away slowly, slipping off the bed as I wept, leaving me curled and broken in my blue polo and jeans, the mystery of my own body mocking me.